Hatred, Statistics, and Other Rubbish
by Noir Lime Canuto
Summary: "Dean almost wanted to laugh. Of course Seamus would tell him something important near a lake, he was so melodramatic like that." A fluffy but thoughtful one-shot about Dean and Seamus.


_ Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended. I acknowledge the rights of J.K. Rowling to Harry Potter and in no way claim to be affiliated with her, nor do I myself claim any ownership over her works. I am in no way profiting off of this work._

**Hatred, Statistics, and Other Rubbish**

"Yeah, I don't get the whole pureblood deal either, I mean, muggleborns are just as talented as everyone else. Sometimes even more so. An' I'm a half-blood, and I loads better at magic than Malfoy's lot—well, except in potions, and charms, and transfiguration..." Seamus' voice trailed off thoughtfully as he reached for another glass of pumpkin juice.

"You're better than me," Neville noted sulkily, "I'm the best example you could fnid of a talentless Pureblood. I'm practically a Squib."

Hermione began to argue with Neville, and the two turned away from the conversation. Seamus, seeing that he'd lost Neville's attention but gained that of several of the other Gryffindors, turned to Ron and said, "It's not so much the magical-talent bit that I don't understand. Loads of people believe that sort of thing, about girls on brooms and that sort of thing—it's all wrong, of course-" he added hastily, "but you know what I mean, we're all a little stupid like that. It's the hate I don't get. How can people just, just _hate_ other people, who they don't even know, so much?" Those who were listening murmured and nodded in agreement.

Hermione turned back to face the group again, Neville beside her looking a little pink, and began to repeat a textbook definition of hatred, at which point Dean's mind strayed elsewhere.

Hatred. Hating other people...

Dean never really hated anybody else. Not even Voldemort, really. He was sure that if he ever met Voldemort personally, he'd hate him, but he hadn't yet. He sort of hated Malfoy, or at least, he wanted to. He saw why it would make sense, but he just couldn't bring himself to do it. Sure, Malfoy was a git, but he was raised that way. And he'd never really done anything awful—it wasn't like he'd opened the chamber of secrets himself, or anything. Sure, he said a lot of nasty things, but for the most part it was all talk. Sometimes Dean wondered if Malfoy actually believed any of it, or if one day maybe he'd realize what rubbish it all was.

Dean had hated himself before, though, sure. He liked certain parts of himself, but there was so much he wished he could change. Sometimes, he'd say something stupid. He'd realize it a moment later, when he saw the look on whoever's face, and he's apologize, or try to say something after to explain it somehow, make it seem less foolish. Soon after everyone else would forget whatever small, silly mistake he'd made, but Dean didn't let go as easily.

At night, with the scarlet curtains drawn around his bed, Dean would go over the scene again and again in his mind. It stung every time, but he hoped there was some way he could become numb to it, convince himself it hadn't happened. Sometimes it worked, and he wondered if those little fragments of mistakes he remembered from years before were real, or things he'd just imagined. Dean had always had a problem with imagining things.

Sometimes, in class, he'd imagine what would happen if someone did something ridiculously peculiar. Some days, during potions, he imagined Snape reading them poetry. Sometimes Draco would apologize personally to everyone in the room. Sometimes Ron would confess his love to Hermione, and they'd run off and get it over with.

Sometimes, though, it was simpler things. When he looked around the room, bored of a lecture and curious as to what the other students were doing, he's catch the eye of someone who was also looking around. Usually both parties would notice, and quickly pretend they hadn't, half to save themselves from embarrassment, half to spare the other. I won't say anything if you don't. It was different with Seamus, though. He didn't look away fast enough, sometimes. Other times, it was Seamus who kept looking at him. Even when he'd quickly look back down at his quill, Dean could feel Seamus still looking at him.

That was one of the instances when Dean hated himself. He hated himself for not looking up at Seamus, not exploring those honey brown eyes with his own. He hated himself for wanting to. He wasn't sure for which reason he hated himself more, but in the end it didn't matter, it all boiled down to how pathetic he felt.

Dean was pathetic. He knew he was. He was good on a broom, but he preferred a quill. That was pathetic. He was taller and stronger than the other boys in his dorm, but he still held out doors for them and let them take the last of things at meals. That was pathetic. Those, though, were faults he could get over, and even appreciate sometimes. But Dean loved his best mate, and that was unforgivable.

He ignored it. He acted as if he didn't. He said all the things and did all the things the same as he had before he'd realized, and so nobody noticed. But Dean couldn't fool himself, like he sometimes did about those other mistakes, because he made this mistake every day. Every day he hated himself, felt himself hollow and empty and yearning for something he knew he could never have. Every time he heard his best mate's voice, it's lilting sweetness, the consistent roughness that made it almost smooth...

"Oi, Dean. Dean!"

Dean looked up from his plate, briefly confused by the fact that it was now empty and he was now full. "What?" he asked, not having to feign confusion.

"We've got transfiguration with the Ravenclaws. C'mon," Seamus said, smiling as he dragged his friend up playfully by the sleeve of his robe. His cold fingers brushed Dean's wrist for just a moment as he did so. Dean pretended he didn't notice that his wrist was now behaving oddly in the exact spot Seamus has touched. He pretended he wasn't wishing that Seamus had noticed, too.

"Right, sorry. Just thinking about what you said before, 'bout hatred, and all," Dean half-lied.

"Yeah, bloody death-eaters. Wish they'd all just bite it."

Dean paused in the middle of the corridor and gave Seamus a questioning look. He could tell he'd meant something more by the comment, but as to what...

"Like _die_? Get it? _Bite_ it, 'cause their Death _Eaters_?" Dean laughed, more at the scandalized look on Seamus's freckled face than at the pun itself.

"Blimey, Dean. For a genius your sure are ruddy slow sometimes," Seamus laughed at they continued down the corridor towards class.

"Genius?" Dean repeated skeptically.

"Mm-hmm," Seamus murmured absentmindedly at they reached the class. He pulled inside by his sleeve again, and Dean thanked Merlin he didn't blush as easily at his friend. He mentally kicked himself at the thought that followed, though, which was that Seamus was currently blushing, which meant that maybe Seamus, too, had noticed the way his fingers has brushed against his wrist again, or the way Seamus' right arm bumped up against Dean's left arm when he sat down, and stayed against it for most of the class, until Seamus set the wooden tugboat they were transfiguring on fire.

_**oxo**_

Seamus reminded himself for nearly the fifth time that day that Dean was _not_ gay—or, like Seamus, bi. He remembered in third year when Dean had laughed so hard after Seamus suggested that Crabbe and Goyle were hopelessly in love and listed off the reasons. He remembered in first year, when Dean had drawn up a valentine and given it to Parvati. Sure, he'd never seemed to eager, besides that one time, to go out with a girl, but he didn't seem all that eager to go out with a guy, either. Especially not Seamus.

Seamus reminded himself that statistically, it was unlikely that Dean was gay. He wasn't absolutely certain about the math behind it, but surely if he was sort-of-gay, and Ernie MacMillan and Justin Finch-Fletchley were going out, and Theodore Nott had admitted it to him that one time during their potions project... well, certainly, statistically, it was just unlikely that anyone else in their year was gay. Certainly not Dean.

Seamus reminded himself that it was wrong not to tell Dean, that he was practically taking advantage of him, stealing glances and touches that Dean didn't even know were romantic to him. He didn't like lying to his best mate. Even if Dean didn't like him back as, well, as more than a best mate, Seamus wanted to know that Dean liked him no matter what. That the secret Seamus was keeping from him wasn't that important anyway—that it wasn't such a big part of him.

Seamus reminded himself that it would be weird to reach out and hold Dean's hand, so he quickly grabbed his sleeve instead, and pulled him along towards the lake. It wasn't an action that really made much sense, as Dean was walking at a perfectly normal pace, and Seamus felt a guilty blush creep into his cheeks as he saw Dean cast him a curious glance. Quickly, Seamus let the sleeve go, and he was surprised to find that Dean seemed to slow down at this. Telling himself that this was adequate excuse, he grabbed the sleeve again, pulling Dean along behind him. His pace slowed as they neared the lake, and finally, and not without hesitation, he dropped the sleeve again, and sat down in the grass.

"Did you read that article I lent you 'bout West Ham? I forgot to ask before. Marvelous, aren't they?" Dean asked cheerfully as he sat down.

"Mm-hmm," Seamus answered quietly, pulling his knees up against his chest and resting his chin upon them at he looked out on the lake. He could tell that Dean was looking at him, but he didn't turn towards him.

Dean sat down with his legs spread out in front of him, his arms propping him up. He noticed, with a small smile, that for once he looked more casual, and Seamus more tense. Generally he was the neat, orderly one. Then the smile faded, as he realized something.

"Seamus, what's up?" When he said 'up,' he meant 'wrong,' but he didn't like the assumption that came with the latter word.

"Oh, nothing, really," he answered, not even bothering to try to sound like he meant it. Still he didn't look over. They remained in silence for a moment, before he continued, "Well, something, actually. There's something I want to tell you."

"Ok, go ahead."

"It's not really that simple," Seamus looked over, not surprised to find his friend looking at him, concern in his wide brown eyes. Somehow, that made it worse. "It's one of those things where you're afraid that if you tell someone, they'll hate you."

"I could never hate you," Dean replied, a little too quickly and too quietly.

"I wouldn't be so sure," Seamus replied with a sigh, looking over at the lake. Dean almost wanted to laugh. Of course Seamus would tell him something important near a lake. He was so melodramatic like that.

"I would. What is it? What have you done?"

"I'm gay. Well, bi, really."

Dean laughed a little, but it sounded a bit forced. Seamus' head snapped to face him, his eyes wide with worry. He relaxed a little as Dean muttered, "That's all? I don't care. In fact..." his voice stopped rather abruptly, and he looked down at the grass twisted between his outstretched fingers.

"I knew... I knew you wouldn't care too much about that, Dean, you're not the sort. What I was more worried about was that," he paused, Dean's eyes meeting his, "Was that I _like_ you. A _lot_. More than I should."

"I..." Dean searched for words, but couldn't seem to find any. Seamus watched him cautiously, and released his hold on his legs, placing his hands carefully on either side of him, as though he was preparing himself in case he had to get up quickly.

When he saw Dean's hand raise, he tensed. He wasn't sure what Dean was about to do. Hit him? Dean was the least violent person he knew aside from the Fat Lady, or Neville. Push him over because he thought it was a joke?

It took him completely by surprise when he felt Dean's hand upon his own, lifting it from the ground, then closing around it gently, but he didn't resist. He looked up at his friend to find him smiling timidly at him with those warm brown eyes. At first, Seamus hesitated...

Then, Seamus reminded himself that it had been Dean who'd held his hand, and was still holding it, and it was Dean who had moved his face an inch closer.

Feeling more like a Gryffindor, Seamus gently used his free hand to bring Dean's face closer to his own. For most of the kiss, Seamus could think only of _Dean_, but at least one of his thoughts was of the uselessness of statistics.

_**Xox**_

__**Note from the Author:** _First off, thank you so much for reading, I really hope you enjoyed it. I haven't written anything in a while, and I haven't been replying to reviews. This has been due to my inability to fix any of the computers in the house up until this point—sorry! I'll be updating everything soon, and I apologize for the inconvenience it's caused anyone D|_

_ I know this was a bit of a cheesy story, and that Seamus and Dean probably aren't gay and probably end up with Lavender and Parvati, or someone, but I think they're adorable together, too, an' I decided I might as well write a story about them. I considered making it a longer story, but I didn't want to lose interest/inspiration and deny someone out there a happy ending, so there you are ^_^;;_

_ Anyway, thanks again for reading, and thanks doubly to those who review. It's really kind to take the time to review, and it seems silly and corny, but I really do appreciate it. If you think I should write a sequel, or another HP story about anything at all (well, except incest/pedophilia), please let me know and I'd be happy to (and of course you'd get credit for the idea, x3;)._

_ Have a nice day! :)_


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